


beneath the artist's loving hand

by janie_tangerine



Category: I Medici | Medici: Masters of Florence (TV)
Genre: (at the end at least), (the last tag is about like cosimo and everyone except marco ops), (this one is to be extra sure but it's more SHOW BASED period typical attitudes), Art, Backstory, Dysfunctional Relationships, Explicit Sexual Content, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Period Typical Attitudes, Portraits, Pre-Canon, Secret Relationship, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, good thing it's not crack, if this was crack fic, it should have been titled 'draw me like one of your florence girls' or smth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-05
Updated: 2017-02-05
Packaged: 2018-09-22 07:38:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9592127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/janie_tangerine/pseuds/janie_tangerine
Summary: Cosimo looks back up at Marco and thinks,my instincts usually don’t fail me, do they? Never mind that he thinks he wants someone around him that –Well, that his father or whoever else hasn’t chosen for him.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TotemundTabu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TotemundTabu/gifts).



> OKAY SO EXTRA LATE PINCH HIT FOR THE MEDICI EXCHANGE WHICH I SHOULD HAVE FINISHED LIKE TWO WEEKS AGO I'M REALLY FUCKING SORRY.
> 
> *cough* so er yeah on to post-apologies business: this is for tumblr user francisperfectionbonnefoy - I merged _Marco/Cosimo, flashback version backstory :D_ and _Marco/Cosimo, Cosimo keeps drawing and painting despite his family duties in secret_. ORIGINALLY the plan was to add 'Marco teaches Cosimo swordfighting in exchange for drawing lessons' but it didn't work out that way though I guess the spirit of that prompt might have ended up in it somewhere. Idk. Also Cosimo's long hair hasn't sadly lasted as much as I'd have liked but hopefully there's enough art and romance to make up for it. (Or well, the romance at least - if by the end you end up needing a dentist for cavities please tell the dentist to give me a percentage. ;) ) Honestly, I really hope it turned out decent and sorry again for making you wait that long  <3
> 
> For your usual disclaimer: literally nothing belongs to me, the title is from Don McLean's Starry Night because that was the only fucking song about artists I could think of that had a suited-ish title and never mind it's about art that happened some five centuries later and I'll now saunter back downwards and leave you to it. :D

As Cosimo tries to speed up his pace as fast as he can in the pouring rain, the one thing he’s being thankful for is that when he saw the dark clouds looming on the horizon this afternoon he chose to leave his horse behind with Lorenzo and their father. His brother had asked him if he was mad, walking all the way back to Florence, but right now he’s plenty happy he did. The horse they gave him was very well-behaved, but with all the lightning and thunder of the last few hours, Cosimo doubt he’d have stayed as docile.

There’s not much else to be happy about – thankfully their business papers are back in Careggi with his father and Lorenzo and the only papers that are undoubtedly ruined are the drawings he wouldn’t part with, lest his father realized he never quite stopped sketching even if it was made very clear that _it would have been preferable if he gave up such silliness_. Well, at least no one is ever going to find out about _those_ papers’ existence now. Small mercies. On top of that he’s completely drenched, and given that he’s drenched he’s also so cold, it feels as if his bones have turned into ice, and having walked all the way here means his feet are hurting in entirely unpleasant ways. And if only there was some light he would have arrived home already, but it’s so dark that he can barely see where he’s putting his own feet, and he’d quite like to avoid breaking a leg should he not see a hole in the ground.

 _You would be back home to your pregnant wife, whom you haven’t touched since her blood stopped coming, and wouldn’t your mother have something to say about it_ , a small voice tells him, and he shushes it. He doesn’t even want to think about it, and he should worry about actually not leaving her a widow instead of wasting time overthinking _that_.

He wipes at his face even if it doesn’t magically make it dry, and then he walks forward.

And he hears a noise that sounds like someone groaning, but he’s probably imagining it. Who’d be even out in this godforsaken weather, for that matter?

A moment later, a bolt of lightning breaks through in the darkness for a split second, and that’s how Cosimo realizes he actually wasn’t imagining anything – in that split second, he sees that there’s definitely someone lying on a ditch on the side of the road.

For a moment Cosimo considers walking forward, sure as hell his father wouldn’t appreciate him helping out some random commoner. Never mind that it might be some kind of rouse and it could be some thief faking sickness –

But then, which thief in their right mind would chance lying in this rain on the off chance someone might see them? Cosimo didn’t even meet anyone coming the other way in a while. No one is out in this fucking weather. And on second thought, if his father wouldn’t appreciate –

All the more reason to go through with it, Cosimo decides. Instead of heading straight as he was about to do, he turns to his left and locates the dark shape again – right. The man is moving, so at least he’s still alive – that’s something.

As he moves closer, he hears another groan. Which sounded like a groan of pain, all things considered.

He kneels down, close enough to touch the man’s arm but not so much that he’d be a target in the unlikely chance it’s, in fact, a thief.

Then he reaches out and shakes the man’s arm.

It’s probably a good thing that he didn’t come close, since the man turns on his side, howling in pain but at the same time holding out a knife in an extremely shaky hand. Cosimo can’t make much of his features in this light, but he can see blood on the back of that hand and on the man’s face, and he can _definitely_ see that like this, the guy really is not going to hurt anyone even if he tried.

“Well, you’re alive then,” he says, figuring that it’s going to convey that he has no dishonest intentions.

“What –” The man croaks.

“I saw you over there and I thought you might be dead,” Cosimo explains. “You can put that away. I mean you no harm.”

A moment later the man’s fingers shake so hard that he drops the knife anyway.

“Come on,” Cosimo says, “leaving people to die on the side of the road isn’t what I want to be remembered for.”

When he reaches out to help the man up, he doesn’t know what he expects, but evidently the guy isn’t completely free of self-preservation. Instead of reaching again for the knife he breathes out and leans on Cosimo when he helps him up to his feet, and at least it seems like he can stand upright.

“Are you hurt anywhere I should know?” Cosimo asks.

“No,” the guy groans. “Just – it was a bad beating. No other wounds.”

Cosimo figures that it means he’s not bleeding from a knife wound, which is pretty much what he was hoping to know.

“Right. It’s not long,” he explains. “Just endure until we get there.”

“Where?” The man groans again. Cosimo is impressed. In his place, he’d probably have fainted a long time ago.

“Where I live,” Cosimo replies, putting a foot in front of the other and cursing the darkness every other moment. He’s not sure he wants to disclose his identity just yet, never mind that this is not the place to have that conversation. Shit, he’s cold, he’s tired and he just wants to be dry, but he has to admit – at least the guy’s weight against his side is sort of comforting. And he’s warmer than anyone that spent some significant amount of time under all that rain should be – well, at least there’s an upside in all of this. It’s not as if his pace can be slowed down more than it was already. He doesn’t try to converse, it would be useless and he can feel that the other man is really not much up for talking right now, and so he walks ahead until he finally, finally reaches the yard. The gate is closed, of course, but he bangs on it making enough noise that someone arrives quickly.

He can’t recall the name of the maid who opens the door, Contessina hired her recently, but he can see well enough that she’s entirely too surprised to see him and to see him carrying _someone else_.

“My lord –” She starts, letting him come in. “We weren’t expecting –”

“I wanted to be back here and I could not wait.”

“Did you _walk_?”

“I did. I didn’t die for it, as you can see.”

“But – what about… him?”

“I found him by the side of the road. I couldn’t very well leave a man to die, could I? Is my wife still awake.”

“I – no, she turned in a few hours ago. She’s been… tired.”

Well, of course. It sounds almost reproachful, and she might have a point since Cosimo hasn’t exactly visited her often lately, but – well, later. He’ll worry about that later.

“Very well, then I shall not disturb her rest. Show me to any room with a made bed,” Cosimo tells her, and she guides him upstairs. At least the other man isn’t completely passed out yet, which means he actually helps when it comes to climbing the stairs. Cosimo drops him on the bed of a modest guest room, but he can barely see his surroundings – there’s just a few candles lit.

And he also needs to dry off. If he’s not wrong, his own room isn’t far.

“I am going to change and get dry,” he tells the maid. “Leave him be and I will worry about it, but I would like more than three candles lit in here when I’m back, along with a full pitcher of water.”

“Of – of course, my lord.”

Cosimo has no time to worry about how much she seems to disapprove of his choices when it comes to rescuing unknown men from the side of the road, and so he leaves, heading for his room. It’s way better lit, unsurprisingly; he locks the door, looks for clean and dry clothes in the closet, takes off his own soaking wet attire throwing it in the corner, dries himself off with the first suitable cloth he finds and changes. When he’s done, he ties his wet hair with a piece of string and puts on dry shoes, too – damn, he does feel like a new man. He remembers that the man was more or less the same build as Lorenzo – he might need dry clothes, too. And well, Lorenzo isn’t here now, is he? He drops by his brother’s room, grabs a few garments he’s sure Lorenzo hasn’t worn in years and heads back for the guest room.

The man hasn’t moved but the maid has dutifully lightened more than a few candles, enough that Cosimo can finally take a good look at him.

For one, he hasn’t moved an inch from where Cosimo left him. He has his eyes closed but his breathing is too labored and he’s holding himself too stiffly for being asleep or passed out. His clothes are all visibly cheap and worn out, same as his boots, so – definitely a commoner. He has a black eye, a split lip that must be the reason his beard is covered in blood and tangled dark, curly hair and Cosimo can see a very, very large bruise blooming under a tear in his shirt. 

Cosimo places the clothes on a nearby chair, only keeping a small piece of cloth he figured would be useful to wipe away some of that blood, then takes the pitcher and sits on the bed. He dabs the cloth inside the cold water, places the pitcher on the nightstand and then reaches out, moving it to the man’s face and wiping away some of that blood.

The man groans and his eyes snap open, and he lets out a breath of relief when he notices his surroundings.

“Calm down,” Cosimo says. “And tell me if this just looks bad or actually is bad.”

“Looks worse than it is,” the man mutters. “The blood is only from the split lip.”

“Good,” Cosimo says. “I imagine it’s the only blood on you?”

“Yes.”

“Very well.” He dabs the cloth in the water again – it turns a light shade of pink as he rinses it. “So, may I ask who I ended up rescuing?”

“No one of import, sad to say,” the man replies as Cosimo wipes away some more encrusted blood from the side of his face. “Differently from _you_ , I dare say.”

“You dare say?”

“This is a palace. And no servant would be able to – to do what you just did. If you don’t own it, you live in it. And if you live in a palace, then you have to be someone of import. At least.”

Well. Cosimo might be a trifle impressed here, if the man noticed all of that while probably nursing a concussion. Given how he’s obviously putting an effort in focusing and how much his eyes blink, he must have hit his head as well. Also – he’s young. Or at least, nearer his age than he had assumed on the road.

“That’s – quite right,” Cosimo agrees. “Someone of import would cover it. But I still would like to know who you are, regardless of important or not you happen to be.”

“Fair enough. You did save my life after all.” The man takes a deep breath and tries to sit up – Cosimo has to grab his shoulder and help him lean against the cushions before he falls back down on the bed. He obviously did receive a thorough beating.

 _And he still could climb on the stairs without making a noise_ , Cosimo thinks.

“Thank you. Well, my – my name is Marco,” the man says.”

“Charming. And the surname?”

Marco shrugs. “I said I wasn’t someone of import for a reason. I never knew my parents, they left me in front of a nunnery just after I was born. But apparently according to most of them I was a beautiful child, so it stuck. Sort of.”

“So, how would that be? Marco… Bello?”

“That’d be it. I know, not ideal, especially in my line of work, but what can you do.”

“Really. Your line of work being…?”

Marco clears his throat. “I left the nuns for good when I was sixteen. One has to learn a few things to, you know, survive when they haven’t been trained for some kind of art.”

“Weren’t you?”

“They were somehow convinced I wanted to be a soldier. They sent me off to learn swordfighting and the likes when I was too old and it was obvious I wasn’t going to find someplace better. But I really didn’t want to be _a soldier_. So… I never went back.”

“And are you good at it?”

“I am, thank you very much,” Marco says. “But this was an unfortunate evening.”

“How so?”

“I, uh, my line of work. I offer… protection to people less skilled in swordfighting than I am and who need someone to make up for it in order to do their job.”

“Like, bankers moving money from one city to the other?”

“Exactly,” Marco says, sounding impressed that Cosimo got there so quickly. “I just came back from the last job I found. They paid well and I probably was careless when I paid for my food and drink before. Someone probably saw that I had quite some money with me or deduced it.”

“So they jumped you?”

“Yeah. At least eight people, under that rain. And they waited. I mean, I had to eat in a tavern near Careggi and they followed me until the point where you found me. In between the dark and the rain – well, eight against one isn’t fair. I swear I am not that bad at my own job.”

“So they stole your money?”

“I’m sad to say. So, may I know the name of my benefactor now?”

Cosimo has to laugh – he likes how Marco isn’t being deferential and that he’s actually joking regardless of his conditions. He doesn’t laugh too often, these days. “Of course you can, as long as you swear that you won’t change the way you’re talking to me right now.”

“… I’ve heard oddest requests.”

Very well, then. Cosimo really hopes things don’t change because of this. He really is enjoying the way they have been talking back and forth until now. He hasn’t had it in –

In a very long time.

“The name – it would be Medici. Cosimo de’ Medici,” he says, and he can’t help but noticing how Marco’s eyes widen in understanding. He opens his mouth for a moment, then closes it, then breathes in and nods once, twice, before looking back at him.

“I see the reasons of that request.”

“Do you?”

“Given that I just ended up in the house of _the second-most important person in Florence_ , and just because your father is the first, I can understand why you’d assume I’d turn deferential. I would have, probably.”

“Well, don’t. I talk to enough deferential people in my life,” Cosimo says frankly, as he rinses his now bloodied cloth before giving up on it and throwing it into the water pitcher. “And being important doesn’t mean I let people die on the side of the road.”

Marco nods. “Then you have my thanks, without it being too… deferential, I hope.”

“It’s not. And you should probably change out of those wet shirts.”

“Right. I can do it on my own, you already went above and beyond.”

“How about I wait outside the door and you ask if you need help?”

Cosimo can tell that was not what Marco had been expecting.

“I – yes. All right. That’s not what anyone would expect of someone of import, if I may tell you.”

Cosimo would like to say _at least someone thinks that_ – he’s still feeling horrible about what happened with Rinaldo a few years ago – and leaves the room. He waits for a bit, and hears rustling from the inside until Marco speaks again and says that he can come back in if he wants to.

The old clothes are on the ground and Cosimo can see that Lorenzo’s things did indeed fit the man well enough. That bruise of Marco’s is not looking any better under a white shirt though – if anything, it looks plenty worsened.

“Maybe I should call for a doctor,” Cosimo proposes, staring at it.

“There’s – there’s no need,” Marco says, maybe a bit too quickly. “Really, I had worse. Nothing that some rest won’t heal.”

“If you say so,” Cosimo replies, not really believing that. Still, he doesn’t want to be the kind of… person of import disregarding someone’s wishes when it comes to their own well-being. “Then maybe I should let you rest and see how you’re faring tomorrow.”

“If I’m imposing –”

“Nonsense. Half of my family isn’t even here and won’t be for a few days yet, and even if it was the case, the palace has plenty of space. And I chose to bring you here, so you’re not imposing. If tomorrow it doesn’t look any better, I will call a doctor, though.”

“That – that sounds fair,” Marco agrees. “Hopefully there won’t be the need.”

“Hopefully. Have a good night, then,” Cosimo says, heading outside.

“Thank you. And – same to you.” He can see that Marco was about to say my lord or something of the kind but eventually doesn’t.

Good.

He doesn’t go to Contessina’s room – no point in waking her up, especially given that it’s not his bed, too – and heads back for his own, changing into proper nightwear.

Meanwhile, he thinks, _and what if this was some kind of sign_?

He knows that it’s not going to be long before his father passes on all of the family affairs to him. And the moment it happens he will have double the enemies, as if he doesn’t have enough right now. He surely could not hold his own against more than two people at once, if he even could – he never cared much for swords and more for pens or pencils. And just when he might have to start getting worried about attempts on his life, he runs into someone skilled in keeping people alive if they can’t do it themselves and it’s someone who doesn’t look at the ground when talking to him, and who actually – looks back?

Cosimo wouldn’t know much about divine signs, and he surely hasn’t had much experience in that sense.

But – but this sounds too good to not be one, he thinks.

He will ponder on it when he’s more rested, he decides. For now, he’ll certainly consider the prospect.

\--

The next day, he does go check on his wife – he can’t postpone it any longer now, can he? – and he’s as courteous as always, and she’s obviously expecting something else from him, as always, and sometimes he wishes he could give her what she obviously hopes for from this marriage, and _still_ –

Still, he can’t. If only he had had a choice, _if only_.

Anyway, she seems to be thriving and the physician assures him that she’s as healthy as anyone who’s been with child for almost eight months can be and that’s good news. At that point, after they’ve left her room, Cosimo asks the doctor if he could check on his guest – the man obviously didn’t expect such a request, but it’s not as if he can refuse it.

Turns out, Marco was dead wrong when he said he would be fine in the morning – when they knock he doesn’t reply, and when they come in he’s still in bed, visibly feverish and groaning whenever he turns on the mattress. It’s obvious that the doctor is dying to ask what exactly is Cosimo doing with someone like _that_ in his house, but Cosimo gives him a stare that should convey that he doesn’t want any question asked, and that he doesn’t want him to just give a perfunctory check.

He goes to wait outside, trusting the doctor to do his job. It takes long enough that he can assume the visit was as thorough as it needed be.

“My lord,” the doctor says as he comes out of the room.

“How is he faring?”

“Well, it could be a lot worse. The fever is most probably because of exposure to the rain in those poor conditions. He does have a few bruises that must be fairly painful, but nothing is broken and honestly, about those there’s nothing to do except waiting for them to fade naturally. As far as the fever goes, it’s nothing that some rest will not cure. If a maid checks on him twice per day and makes sure he eats and drinks and does not move, he should be healed in a few days.”

“Very well. Is there something he could take to deal with the bruises?”

“I can leave a few herbal drinks that might help,” the doctor replies, “but I’m afraid he’s going to have to bear the most of it.”

“Send them, then. Thank you very much.” Cosimo pays him more than warranted, the doctor profusely thanks him and leaves quickly enough. Cosimo walks back into the room – the pitcher has been refilled and it’s on the side of the bed now. He should probably call a maid as the doctor said, but –

After all, he has no business to deal with until his father and Lorenzo come back, and it won’t be for a few days yet. His alternative is – well, it probably makes him a coward, but he doesn’t know what he’d say to Contessina and he can’t bear to fake affections he doesn’t feel. And the maid from yesterday didn’t look too happy with the prospect of checking on a sick man she didn’t know twice per day.

Well then. He’s going to stay. He checks that the cloth on Marco’s forehead is wet and cool, then closes the door and heads for his own room. He grabs his sketchbook and another two to put around it so if anyone sees him they’ll think he’s just bringing books to read or accounts to revise and goes back to Marco’s room. As Cosimo takes the seat at the small table in the corner, Marco groans in his sleep but doesn’t wake up – moving around probably hurts, Cosimo reasons.

He opens up the sketchbook and tries to remember how he had drawn some possible improvements for Careggi’s porch – he had the original sketches in his bag and he had to throw out everything after it was ruined because of the rain. He takes a pause when the maid brings the herbs from the doctor a while later, still looking fairly disapproving of Cosimo being in the room, but he just dismisses her, places the herbs on the nightstand and goes back to his drawing. Not that he likes it much. It’s just – it doesn’t add up and he has a feeling he has to have the actual building in front of him in order to at least attempt to reconstruct his original plan.

He shakes his head and turns the paper on the other side. His eyes go back to the man on the bed and for a moment he thinks, he has an interesting face. He does – he’s not what you’d call conventionally beautiful, maybe; certain he doesn’t look like those statues he had seen in Rome or the ones that Donatello used to sculpt. He has nothing of that symmetry nor his traits look like what he’d find on an ancient Greek statue (not with that sharp nose and the stubble and the unruly hair), but all the same… he’s handsome, in his own way? Cosimo thinks he likes that he has sharp features on a slightly circular face. The tanned skin goes well with the curly and unruly hair, which right now is in a fairly bad state because of how dirty it is, but if cleaned properly… 

It’d be an interesting face to draw, Cosimo thinks, and then he shakes his head trying to kill the damned though. As if. That’d be exactly the last thing he needs. He can notice the disapproving stares whenever he draws improvements for the house, which his father does at least tolerate, the last thing he needs is someone finding out he wants to draw an almost perfect stranger.

Cosimo puts the sketchbook away and opts to read one of the books instead.

\--

In the following days, he finishes it and reads another and goes through the accounts twice. By the fourth day, in between the herbs and the rest, the fever dies down and Cosimo gets the confirmation of his previous suspicion: the man really does look quite handsome in his own way, when his hair is clean and not tangled or matted with sweat.

As if _this_ is what he should be thinking about.

“Not to sound, well, deferential,” Marco tells him the day the physician declares him as fit as it goes, not counting that the bruises still need to fade, “so I’m not telling you because of that, but – as it is, I think I have a debt with you.”

“You don’t –” Cosimo starts.

“I have,” Marco interrupts, and isn’t Cosimo glad that someone is treating him as a peer for once, “what where I come from is called a _life_ debt. While I don’t know what it is that I could do to pay you back, I figured I would make you aware that – that it’s how things are. As far as I’m concerned.”

He’s staring at Cosimo in a certain intense way, Cosimo thinks, all intent and obviously meaning it, and Cosimo glances down at Marco’s hands as he considers it. Rough fingers, he can see that. Overall, darker than his own. Then again, he figures Marco would have more chance to be out in the sun than Cosimo himself.

Cosimo looks back up at Marco and thinks, _my instincts usually don’t fail me, do they_? Never mind that he thinks he wants someone around him that –

Well, that his father or whoever else hasn’t chosen for him. He likes this man, or as much as you can like someone in the circumstances of their meeting. For one he’s not treating Cosimo like he’s made of spun glass or like he’s some kind of hatchling that has to be guided everywhere, and –

Oh, he’s going to follow his instincts.

“And what if I told you that there is a way you could pay me back?”

“Then I’m listening.”

Cosimo meets Marco’s eyes again – if anything, he’s not going to look somewhere else for this conversation.

“Let’s say,” he says, “that most people around me are there because they’re related to me or because my illustrious father chose them for me.” _Including my wife_ , he doesn’t say.

“Very well.”

“Let’s say that the more time passes, the more – the more I have to take on my father’s duties,” Cosimo says. “He’s an important man. With an important position.”

“That, he is.”

“Which means that the more time passes, the more likely my life might be endangered. A lot of people don’t like my father. Or me.”

“I haven’t had the pleasure to meet your father,” Marco says, “but when it comes to you, I have a feeling they might be wrong.”

Cosimo huffs, even if he appreciates the thought. “Well, thank you, but they have their reasons. Anyway, I might actually need someone with… your skill set, if I make myself understood. After all, you said that your trade was keeping people alive, wasn’t it?”

“It is,” Marco agrees. “I have a feeling I haven’t made the best impression of that, but –”

“Please, one against that many people in that weather isn’t exactly… what I would call an average way to demonstrate your skill set. Anyway, I do need someone who might watch my back, so to speak. Possibly, who isn’t at my father’s beck and call and who won’t treat me deferentially. If you swear that you won’t do what my father asks of you when he inevitably offers you money to tell him what I do with my time when he isn’t seeing, that’s how you can pay off that debt.”

“Your – your… father would ask that of me?”

“Oh, my father _will_ ask that of you. At some point I – I was in love with a woman he didn’t approve of and he paid her to disappear from my life, I absolutely don’t put that past him.” Never mind what happened with Rinaldo, but Cosimo tries to not think about it too often.

Marco’s expression turns slightly horrified. “I – I wouldn’t. I mean, I owe you a debt, not him.”

“Well then,” Cosimo says, not killing the small smile he feels spreading on his lips and extending a hand, “it seems like we have a deal.”

Marco cautiously reaches out and shakes it – right. Calloused fingers. Definitely rough. But he’s also holding Cosimo’s hand more gingerly than one would have thought.

“We do.”

( _Cosimo will regret a lot of decisions in his life later on._

 _But not this one_.)

 

**six months later**

 

“What happened to the hair?”

Cosimo would have schooled his features into indifference, had it been anyone else asking the question.

But – it’s been six months since they met, and he can remember with even too much clarity the moment Marco walked into his study, cleared his throat and put in front of him the small bag of money that Cosimo’s father had insisted to give him, implying that he expected Marco to be at _his_ beck and call.

( _“I tried to refuse, he wouldn’t hear it and he seemed to pretend that he respected my choices. Of course, he probably thinks I’ll cave when he asks next, but since I figured throwing it back at him wouldn’t have been a good idea, I figured I’d just give it to you,” Marco had said._

 _Cosimo had nodded and taken the money, putting it away in his drawer, and hadn’t been able to answer given that his throat had pretty much clammed up. The other two people he had tried to enlist for this specific job had taken the money, indeed._ )

And since he’s sure that his father won’t know, he lets himself flinch.

“It was… well, let’s say… a wild suggestion was thrown around a lot lately.”

“Such as?”

Cosimo shrugs. “Now that I’m a father, I need to take on greater duties and I have to look respectable while I do it. After a month of that, I figured that it was for everyone’s piece of mind.”

He doesn’t say how he loathed cutting it off – he feels naked without it, and a part of him is saying _and with it, you lost everything tying you to your old dreams, haven’t you_?, and he desperately tries to ignore it. Marco just stares at him for a bit, then gives him a brief nod.

“Understood. May I say something… inappropriate?”

“That’s also what you’re here for, isn’t it?”

Marco looks at him, then shrugs. “It looked good on you. And there’s nothing… not respectable about it.”

“Says you,” Cosimo replies, but his voice sounds lighter in spite of his horrible mood. After all, no one cares about how long Marco’s hair is, but then again Cosimo thinks only Contessina finds him _respectable_ around here. At least it seems like they have a mutual liking to each other, and for some reason it doesn’t irk him. He didn’t want another reason for his relationship with his wife to be even more frayed than it is already.

( _Sometimes he thinks he could at least try to give her more, if only because she is in fact doing her duty._

 _If only he had been given a choice._ )

“Then I guess that you can keep it long for the both of us.”

Marco’s lips curl up in a small grin. “I’ve been given harder orders to follow than this.”

Cosimo figures that it’s going to have to be enough, but –

His hand goes to the back of his head, feeling his now short hair curl ever so slightly against his nape.

He doesn’t say he doesn’t recognize himself in the mirror anymore.

 

**one year later**

 

There’s a stack of papers Cosimo keeps in a locked chest.

It’s not the same as the stack of papers where he draws the usual improvements for the palace.

Those ones are safe. No one complains about it, and he knows his parents still think he has a bizarre obsession for architecture _and_ for paying excessively the architects that he calls to make his plans come to life.

He also knows that it’s downright pathetic that he keeps the other stack of papers locked – he’s in charge of the most important bank in his city, he sits regularly next to his father in the Signoria, everyone in Florence knows who he is and what his name means, he has a wife and a child and is now respectable in every sense of the word and here he is, hiding _drawings_ as if they were some kind of sin he should confess for.

Sometimes he thinks he should and then never does. Mostly because the larger part of him still thinks that there’s really nothing sinful in it.

Some other times he thinks he should burn the entire lot and be done with it, but –

There’s no silencing that voice telling him _the moment you do it you’ll turn out to be just like your father and_ this _is the only barrier left in between you and him_.

If there’s one thing he knows, is that he doesn’t want to be his father, except in all the ways the world is forcing him to be.

He shakes his head, locks the study’s door and opens the chest. He reaches for the thick leather folder and takes it out, opening it. The first sheet is an unfinished sketch of his son’s smiling face that he drew by heart yesterday and hasn’t quite managed to finish yet – sometimes he thinks he might even show it to Piero, if only because he won’t remember it.

Maybe. Who knows. He barely has the time to spend time with his son on his own anyway, not when he has accounts to check over, Signoria meetings to attend and pretend that he actually enjoys any of that, not that it matters. His wife still looks at him as if she’s waiting for him to talk about it.

Which he won’t. He already knows he won’t. He stands up, moving to his desk to look for some charcoal, and then he almost closes the drawer on his own fingers when someone knocks at the door.

“Yes?”

“My lord.” Oh, it’s Emilia. Cosimo lets out a breath of relief and spares a moment to feel thankful that he remembered to lock the door. “Sorry to disturb you, but your mother wishes to see you. She said, _as soon as possible_.”

Which translates into _right this instant_ , most probably. Cosimo groans out loud. “Understood. I will be coming shortly.”

He closes the drawer, wondering why is he even summoned early in the afternoon, and he slams the door behind him as he leaves the room.

He doesn’t realize that _he left the damned chest open_ until he’s in front of the door leading to his mother’s quarters and has Emilia tailing him – obviously, he can’t go back.

He just hopes no one walks into the room, and then knocks on the door.

\--

Of course, it was another lecture about needing more heirs and Contessina upholding her duties while he doesn’t.

Cosimo won’t ever admit out loud that he barely even listened – God, he did everything they asked of him, he gave them an heir, does he even have to pretend he enjoys it?

By the time he’s finally allowed to vacate the premises, he has to stop himself from running back to his study. Gods, if _anyone_ walked in –

Maybe he really should destroy those drawings and move on with his life, if anything because then no one would risk finding out, and it would just be so much easier, and that part of him that abhors the prospect will just have to deal with it. Maybe he’s just hurting himself further, by stealing time for something he won’t ever be able to pursue fully as he had always wanted. Maybe he should stop giving himself small moments of reprieve because then he just remembers that he can’t have that _all the time_ as he had once dreamed of.

But it’s no matter, if he’s found out. Maybe he could be content with designing improvements to the rooms and the palace and the courtyard and it won’t hurt so much to discard all the rest. Maybe at some point when he takes his father’s place for good no one will be able to tell to his face that it’s not proper for someone of his position to indulge in _creating_ art –

Or maybe he should just give it all up for good. He hides that it feels like getting stabbed in the gut just thinking about it (the same way it feels when he looks at that unfinished dome every time he walks in front of Santa Maria del Fiore) and walks back into his study.

And then he feels his legs giving out as he takes the nearest chair.

The chest is closed, though not locked. When he opens it, it’s empty – or at least, the folder with the drawings isn’t there anymore.

 _Damn it_.

\--

He expects his father to bring it up during supper, but – he doesn’t. Actually, he behaves as if everything is… perfectly normal. Cosimo keeps himself alert and glances at everyone else sitting at the table to try and find out if there’s something different about how they look at him, but –

Nothing. On one side, it’s enough of a relief, on the other – on the other then _who the hell has those drawings_? For a moment he wonders, _maybe some servant who thoughts they might be good blackmail material_. Who else would have walked into his study? Lorenzo, maybe, but –

No, Lorenzo would have come to him and asked for explanations. There’s no way it was him. He’d have bet on Emilia if she hadn’t been with him all along while he went to see his mother, but then again maybe she could have gone back – she wasn’t waiting for him outside when he left his mother. Still, asking her directly would be a very bad idea if he’s wrong. He doesn’t want to make anyone the wiser when it comes to this and he shouldn’t address anyone if he’s not sure that they know.

Supper goes along as usual. By the end of it, Cosimo has come to the conclusion that no one sitting at the table can be behind the disappearance (or if they are and someone else took the drawings on their orders, then they haven’t been made aware yet), unless they’re better actors than anyone would give them credit for. Never mind that all of them would have addressed it by now – his parents certainly don’t like to wait to deliver bad news and Contessina isn’t just that kind of person, of that he’s sure.

So he pretends everything is as usual and he retires to his own room (that he does not share with his wife) bent on figuring out how to go about this without getting anyone suspicious, or he won’t catch any sleep tonight. Not if he has that nagging thought at the back of his mind that –

Someone knocks.

“Yes?”

“Can I come in?”

Cosimo recognizes Marco’s voice at once and goes to open the door himself, wondering what it is that he needs to discuss at this time.

“Please,” he says, moving forward so that Marco can come inside. “Is there something you need?”

“No,” Marco says, “but I think I have something you need.” Cosimo notices just now that he was clutching something to his chest – Marco hands over a large jute bag, and when Cosimo takes it –

He feels the shape of his folder inside it.

“What –“ He starts, taking it out. He can’t be wrong –

And he isn’t. There it is, same as he left it this afternoon.

“Sorry about taking it without warning,” Marco says, keeping his voice low, “but there came a few letters for you from Rome this morning and I was the only one around to take them. I brought them up while you were seeing your mother and I saw that folder in the open chest. I was about to go and close everything when I heard someone walking through the hallway. I grabbed it just in case someone found me staring at it and a moment later Emilia showed up asking me what I was doing in there without permission, I told her I thought you would be in and I figured I should leave before she figured it out. I closed the chest on the way out but I couldn’t lock it and I pretended the folder was something I was carrying around myself. And I had no means to give it back to you for now.”

Cosimo thinks he’s never felt such relief in his entire life – his legs really might give out. For a moment he had been angry but right now he’s downright thankful that this was how it went. Even if it means –

“Did you look at it?”

“Just the one drawing on the top. It wasn’t too hard to figure out what it was about.”

“And – I mean, I know you wouldn’t say –”

“Of course I would not,” Marco interrupts, and isn’t Cosimo glad he doesn’t let him finish most of the time. “I mean, I don’t understand why you would go to such lengths to hide it, but of course I wouldn’t say.”

“I – well,” Cosimo starts, feeling kind of awkward, and he shouldn’t be, “let’s just say these – these used to be a reason of… contention, to say the least. I wish to keep the family peace.”

“I see,” Marco says. “It does look… forgive me. I shouldn’t say.”

“No, you should,” Cosimo insists. “I’d rather you say it.” _Also because now you know and I think I can trust you to keep it for yourself, but I don’t know if I can trust anyone with it._

Marco shrugs. “There is… really nothing bad in – this, I guess. I mean, I’m no artist and it was enough that where I come from they thought teaching us to _write_ was worth it. This – well, I’ve just seen one of those drawings, but it was beautiful. You create beautiful things. I don’t get what’s to argue about it. Then again, my skills are… the entire contrary. Maybe that’s why it seems like that to me.”

“The entire contrary?”

“Cosimo, did you forget why you hired me already, or did you miss the part where in order to make a living I harm others?”

 _You certainly never harmed me_ , Cosimo thinks and doesn’t say.

“You also protect others,” he mutters, the compliments feeling foreign on his lips – he’s almost never in the position of saying something like this to someone else. “Don’t – see yourself so negatively.”

“I happen to think it’s worth it,” Marco says, staring at him. “It’s not necessarily… negative. But I still do not think this is anything you should keep in a locked chest.”

For a moment they just stare at each other, and Cosimo would like to say a lot of things. _Thank you_ , first and foremost. But somehow his throat is clammed and Marco seems to understand it, because then he gives Cosimo a small nod and squares up his shoulders.

“I guess I’ve done what I came here for,” Marco says. “I will leave, if you –”

“Wait,” Cosimo interrupts him, and _why did he do it_?

“I’m not going to tell anyone, if –”

“I know you won’t.” And he does. With certainty. “That’s not what – I mean, if you want to look at them, you can.”

… That was not what Cosimo had been planning to ask, but he has, and he’s not holding to the folder as tightly anymore.

“Can I?”

“I just said that, didn’t I?”

Marco snorts and reaches out, taking back the folder with a care that Cosimo has only seen him handle his sword with when he polishes it.

For some reason, it’s a very pleasing idea that Marco should treat his own drawings in such a way.

“Uhm, you can sit,” Cosimo says when he realizes that both of them are still standing fairly awkwardly. Marco clears his throat and assents before taking a chair next to a lit candle. Cosimo doesn’t know if he wants to look at Marco as he opens the folder carefully, but eventually does if only because he doesn’t know if he will ever offer again, and – maybe it would be nice to see what someone who’s completely outside the field would think.

He sees Marco’s eyes go slightly wider as he goes through each drawing; sometimes his lips part in surprise (or maybe wonder?) as he goes over certain pieces.

He stops over one, though, and Cosimo moves behind him if only to check which one it is.

And then he sees, and –

Figures it’d be _that_ one.

Thing is – before his marriage, and during his last trip to Rome, he had ended up drawing Bianca’s portrait out of… he doesn’t even know what. Fear that he’d forget her? Wanting to see if maybe putting her features on page would somehow exorcise what he felt for her still? He doesn’t know. What he knows is that he didn’t just sketch it. He went through the trouble of coloring it, and while he knows it could have used improvement. Her hair is as red as he remembers it – perhaps a bit faded because he’s kept that drawing in the dark for this long, but it doesn’t change the result much –, her eyes as green, her face as lovely, her lips as soft. He only stopped at the face so her hands aren’t in the picture, but he remembers them as much. Every other place of her body was soft and yielding under his own, but her hands were rough where Cosimo’s were soft, and of course they were. He never washed his own clothes now, did he?

He thinks for a wild moment, _would Marco’s hands be rougher_?

“Something tells me,” Marco says a moment later, “that she was the woman they wouldn’t let you love, isn’t she?”

“Is it so obvious?”

Marco shrugs minutely. “This one is different from the others. I don’t know if I can explain what it is, but it just is.”

“I should really burn it,” Cosimo sighs.

“Why?”

“Imagine if someone other than you finds _this_ specific portrait,” Cosimo replies bitterly. Marco shakes his head, placing the drawing carefully back in its place.

“And then you wouldn’t have anything to remember her by.”

“I can’t forget her however much I try, anyway,” Cosimo says. “There’s no point. I just never had a choice when it came to her. That’s what I hated most about… how it ended.”

“What was her name?”

“Bianca,” Cosimo replies.

Marco stares at it some more, then moves on to the drawing underneath, but it’s obvious he’s not really looking at it in the same way.

“I think,” he says not long later, “that she would have liked it.”

“I met her because she modeled for a couple of… friends,” Cosimo says, choosing the wording as appropriately as he can. “It wouldn’t even have been the best portrait of her likeness anyone ever drew.”

“That’s not it,” Marco says, thumbing through the rest of the sketches.

“What it is then?”

“Did you say she was a seamstress?”

“No. Laundress.”

“Well, it doesn’t change things much. Maybe to you _prominent_ people it’s not so obvious, but do you think that many of… us, I guess, get their portrait sketched with so much love behind it? Even if someone else drew her a better one, it wouldn’t have the same feeling to it.”

It’s – it’s a point, Cosimo has to concede. He did make that portrait with love, after all.

“And – I guess I can’t understand why would anyone think of these as something they should hide,” he finally says, closing the folder.

“Sorry?”

“I mean, I understand why your father thinks it’s a waste of time, but he shouldn’t. These are beautiful. And you shouldn’t burn any of them.”

Cosimo has to laugh – so that he doesn’t cry, if anything. “I wouldn’t want to. But it just looks like I’m desperately clinging to it, you know? Maybe I should just – stop.”

“Do you have it in yourself, though?”

Cosimo finds the guts to meet Marco’s eyes – he sounds entirely serious.

“Maybe not. But – why should I even nurture it? It won’t ever go anywhere beyond maybe architectural renovations.”

“Because you love it too much to give it up,” Marco replies at once.

“Sorry?”

“It’s obvious. You love it more than bank accounts. And – may I say something entirely inappropriate?”

“Please.”

“It doesn’t matter how much you cut your hair or you hide your art, just looking at it shows that it’s what you like most. And no one should – cripple themselves like this,” he finally says.

Cosimo thinks he’s forgotten how to breathe. His eyes are _stinging_ , goddamn it.

“Did you deduce that now or –”

“No. I mean, this makes it obvious, but that you’re getting adjusted to a life you don’t love is fairly obvious to anyone with a pair of eyes who cares to look.”

For a long, long moment Cosimo can’t literally think of a comeback. Then –

“How long have you known?”

Marco laughs. “Since the moment I accepted to work for you.”

“ _What_?”

“It was obvious even then. Besides,” Marco says, his hand brushing over the closed folder, “I think she’d think herself lucky if she could see it.”

“… The sketch, I mean? Why?”

Marco shrugs minutely. “Do you think everyone in the world gets their likeness put on paper with love? Doesn’t happen to many of us.”

There’s something slightly off in the way the sentence is phrased. 

Almost as if –

“Is this about her or about you?”

 _What did he even just ask_?

He wishes he could take it back the moment it leaves his lips, if only because as much as their relationship is more friendly than what one would assume when Cosimo is technically employing Marco, that was still – an entirely too personal question. And fine, this entire exchange has been personal, but it’s not quite the same as –

“Maybe it is about me,” Marco admits a moment later, and at least he doesn’t sound angry. Merely… accepting, perhaps?

“I shouldn’t have asked,” Cosimo says then, instead of pressing the subject.

“I didn’t mind it.” At least Marco doesn’t sound like he’s lying. “And I did bring up the subject first.”

Reason says Cosimo should keep his mouth shut.

“So if I ask you whether you’d want your likeness put on paper… with love, would you mind the question?”

“I have a feeling most girls I can reasonably court wouldn’t have much time to spare for such frivolousness.”

Cosimo remembers what he had thought that first night when they met each other.

 _He has an interesting face_.

And that was when he didn’t know Marco at all.

He shouldn’t be thinking about this at all. There are a lot of reasons he shouldn’t. First and foremost, that if he does what he’s thinking of, he’s going to put himself in a very precarious position, never mind that he perfectly knows what’d happen if anyone was to know.

 _He_ has used that same weapon once, hasn’t he? Then again, when he found Donatello and his boy he hadn’t exactly felt disgust at the sight.

Actually, everything but. And he’s been around enough artists with those same proclivities to know that there’s nothing inherently wrong about loving a man – at least, not as wrong as most people assume.

With anyone else, he wouldn’t dare, but – _but_.

Marco is not _anyone else_.

“And what if I told you that you know someone with time to spare for such frivolousness who happens to not be a girl?” He blurts, and shit but he sounds like he used to back when his hair was longer and his life was much simpler.

Marco’s eyes are on his a moment later. Cosimo’s first reaction is relief, because he doesn’t look angry. The second is disbelief because he looks _interested_.

“Is that person in front of me or are we talking about someone else entirely?”

“We’re not. Talking about someone else,” Cosimo admits.

He hadn’t known what to expect.

But surely not for Marco to stand up, lock the room, sit back down next to him and ask, “Do you mean it?”

“I don’t think I’d have much to gain out of jesting now, do I?”

“Good thing,” Marco says then, moving closer, “that my only loyalty here is to _you_ ,” he breathes against Cosimo’s mouth before closing the distance between them and pressing their mouths together.

Fact is, Cosimo has barely kissed anyone since Bianca. He has kissed his wife, perfunctorily, and out of obligation, but never with _meaning_.

It’s been years.

He thought he could remember the feeling very clearly, but obviously he didn’t, or maybe it’s all different because Bianca’s mouth was all softness while Marco’s all rough and little finesse, though in that they were similar. Bianca kissed like she meant it and _so is Marco_ for that matter, and for a moment he feels utterly overwhelmed as he kisses back, and – he was wondering before if Marco’s hands would be as rough as Bianca’s were. And as they come up to cradle the back of his head Cosimo finds out that they are, though in different places. God, they’re actually rougher and Marco’s fingers are not as slender but they’re still very, very gentle, and maybe it should feel weird –

But it doesn’t. He’s seen firsthand how gentle Marco’s fingers can be when they handle swords or drawings or things he cares about and the fact that he’s doing the exact same thing to _him_ is making Cosimo’s head spin in all the best of ways. He parts his lips and groans into the kiss when their tongues meet and suddenly he feels hot all over, in ways he hasn’t been in years –

But then again, it’s been years since he shared his bed with someone he chose for himself.

His own hands reach upwards, brushing at Marco’s cheeks, feeling the now-not-unkempt-anymore beard under his fingertips, encouraging him to make the kiss deeper, and Marco does – Cosimo doesn’t stop him when he moves forward and before he’s figured out what’s going on here he’s lying on his back and Marco’s half above him. More on his side, truth to be told, and when they part, breathing in heavily, Marco notices their positions. For a moment he seems _embarrassed_ and that’s a new look on him, but then one of his hands tentatively covers Cosimo’s hip. He swallows – Cosimo can see the movement in his throat and he feels like reaching up and kissing it, but he doesn’t move and just stares back, wondering what Marco is seeing.

Then one of those rough hands cups his cheek. “I imagine,” Marco rasps, and he sounds wrecked, “that you don’t want to stop here.”

“Do you?”

“No.”

“Well, I don’t want to, either.”

“Good to know. Then – then how do you want this?”

 _How_ – it takes a moment before Cosimo realizes what was the question.

Then he realizes that there are a number of reasons why Marco would ask, none of which he particularly likes, and then he also realizes that beyond accidentally stumbling on some of his friends partaking in the act, back in the day, he has no idea whatsoever of how to proceed.

“Have you ever…” He trails, then clears his throat. “I mean. With another man.”

The corners of Marco’s lips quirk slightly upward. “I might have,” Marco replies. His thumb is still caressing Cosimo’s cheeks and Cosimo almost whimpers, leaning into it. God, how much had he missed it? “But just say how you want it. It can be worked out.”

Cosimo ponders the question for a moment but right now, he’s not particularly feeling like being in charge of anything, least of all fucking, never mind that after the day he’s just had he doesn’t want to have to think about the logistics of something he hasn’t ever done on top of it. Never mind that he hasn’t enjoyed this since – since Bianca, and when _performing his duties_ he certainly wasn’t the one on his back.

He looks up at Marco.

“I want it the way we are,” he whispers, the words almost getting caught in his throat but eventually fighting their way out. For a moment Marco looks surprised but then he shakes his head and leans down, his mouth pressing against Cosimo’s again and his legs going around Cosimo’s knees.

“As you wish,” Marco says, and then Cosimo expects him to – to just take his clothes off, but instead he looks around and eyes a small oil lamp on the nightstand. Cosimo hadn’t thought of lightening it since he still has a few candles burning on the other side of the bed, and almost asks Marco if he wishes for more light –

That is, until he realizes that maybe _he doesn’t need more light at all_.

“Do you need – the oil?” He asks, breath stuck in his throat – he does know how this works. He should have thought of it sooner.

“If I want both of us to like this, I really do,” Marco replies. “Not yet, though.” He moves to the side, kicking off his boots – Cosimo does the same, figuring it’s better now than having them in the way later, and then Marco’s legs are in between his own and his rough, careful hands are opening up Cosimo’s shirt and exposing skin underneath that he’s not even sure he’s ever let anyone see in years. Cosimo’s breath hitches as Marco’s fingertips work the laces of his trousers open and Cosimo knows that just someone blind wouldn’t have noticed that he’s not having to fake arousal. Not here and not now.

What surprises him, though, is that while Marco undoes the laces, he leaves the trousers on.

“Not just yet,” he says, before Cosimo can ask, and then leans down for another kiss, and then two, and then his mouth moves to the side and kisses its way down along his neck. Cosimo doesn’t even try to dissuade Marco when he bites softly at his shoulder, and he has to stifle down a moan or ten as Marco’s hands wrap around his hips, grabbing ever so slightly, just as Marco’s teeth close over his lower lip for a long, long moment.

“Unless you’re in a hurry,” Marco says against his mouth as he leans back, his thumbs pressing against his hips hard enough that Cosimo can feel it but not that it hurts.

“I’m not,” Cosimo replies, meaning it. He’s most definitely not.

“Then are you tense for some other reason?”

“… Am I?” He had no idea he was, though now that he thinks about it he notices that he is not really as relaxed as he could be, but then again he hasn’t laid with anyone lately without wanting to be done with it as soon as possible. He’s more out of his depth than anything else, though. “I guess – I was expecting different.”

“Hm,” Marco mouths against his neck before leaning back enough to look at him in the eyes. “See, where I come from, they taught me a lot of things.” He says that as he slowly leans down – his crotch brushes against Cosimo’s thigh and _oh_ , he’s… definitely feeling this as well, and Cosimo’s head might start spinning again if Marco doesn’t stop teasing.

“Such as?” Cosimo breathes.

“Such as, treating well what little things of value we happened to have,” Marco replies, his cock lining up with Cosimo’s, and even if they’re both still clothed Cosimo feels like his skin is going to set itself on fire just at that. He’s way, way over in his head, but for once it doesn’t sound like a bad prospect.

“Does that mean – I’m… something of value?”

“I daresay,” Marco says, his hand finally moving away from his hip and inside Cosimo’s trousers and stroking his cock once, twice, “ _the most valuable_ I’ve ever had the pleasure to have. And I intend to treat you accordingly.”

Before Cosimo can reply, those rough fingers are jerking him off again, and again, and again, and he has to turn down and bite on the pillow in order not to scream as Marco’s other hand grabs at the back of his neck, at a handful of short hair he can just barely grasp.

“You know,” he says, slowing his hand’s motions down, “I had imagined doing this… before.”

“When?” Cosimo blurts.

“When it was long. I imagined wrapping it around my fingers and tugging and maybe running my hands through it.”

Cosimo whimpers softly into Marco’s shoulder, hoping no one heard him. He almost doesn’t say, “I wish you could,” but he does, and it comes out almost sobbing.

“I know,” Marco says, his tone all understanding and soft, and then he stops his strokes just when Cosimo was about to just let go and swallows his protests with another searing kiss as his hand moves away –

Oh. Towards the nightstand, probably.

“I know,” he breathes out again as they part, and yes, he _is_ holding the lamp in his hand. Cosimo is positive that whatever blood he has, it’s not flowing towards his brain any longer. “It looked good on you, but – the current situation isn’t that much worse.”

“It is,” Cosimo sighs, trying to not think of when he cut it lest he ruins the moment.

“Don’t worry, it still suits you.” Marco puts the lamp to the side of the bed and then leans back, getting rid of his own trousers and underwear, and Cosimo should do the same but stays still instead and lets Marco do it if only because it feels nice to let someone else handle it, and for a moment he doesn’t move at all as Marco glances down at the both of them (Cosimo thinks that while he feels like he might burst any moment Marco couldn’t be feeling any better) and then seems to have come to some definite conclusion about what he has to do.

He spits in his hand once, twice, and then gives his own dick a few perfunctory strokes before doing it again. Cosimo doesn’t know how he doesn’t even groan out loud considering how bothered he obviously is, but maybe he just has very good self-control. Scratch it, Marco does have very good self-control in general, but –

Never mind. He can’t _think_ , not when he’s watching the scene in front of him and he can feel his arousal grow, and he’d touch himself but he doesn’t want to come _right now_ and he can’t help noticing a lot of things. Like how Marco’s chest is a lot lither and larger than his but how it’s also mostly muscle, and how a good part of it is covered in shallow scars – most of them are white by now but a few are still red, and he wants to reach out and _touch_ same as Marco did before with him, but he doesn’t. Not right now, not as Marco’s reaching for the lamp again. He takes it in his dirty hand, and then moves forward, a palm pressing on Cosimo’s stomach.

“I need you to open your legs.”

Cosimo swallows and does, lifting his hips when Marco shoves a pillow underneath, and then he opens the lamp, wets the tip of a finger inside it and Cosimo bites down on his other pillow when Marco slips it inside him, slow and cautious. He dips it into the lamp again and again, until Cosimo’s need to scream at is down to a whimper instead, and he’s more or less ready for it when it’s not just one fingertip but two making their way down, still coated in oil. He tries to relax and he mostly does, and then at some point Marco’s fingers plunge deeper and the slight discomfort is suddenly trumped over by a spike of pleasure.

He doesn’t know how he doesn’t choke trying to not moan out loud.

“Should I do that again?” Marco asks, sounding fairly satisfied of his efforts.

“ _Yes_ ,” Cosimo replies at once, and Marco does, and he doesn’t know how he hasn’t come yet but when he looks down at himself he can only think, _I’ve never been this hard in my entire life_ and waits with his breath held as Marco pours the last of the oil on his palm, coats his own cock with it and moves forward. Oh. _Oh_.

“Listen,” Marco says, lining up, “I used it all up but it still might hurt. If it’s too much say it.”

“As if I can’t take some pain,” Cosimo snorts. “Just go ahead.”

Marco does. Starting slow, and he was right – it’s still not a complete seamless fit, and it does hurt a bit, but it’s not in the bad way. Cosimo thinks he might actually enjoy the slight burn of it, and everything’s slippery enough that he doubts it will hurt that much more. He raises up his legs, his ankles hooking over Marco’s legs so there’s better friction and leverage, and then Marco just gives one strong push and he has to bite down on Marco’s shoulder, _hard_ , before the entire palace hears.

“Enjoying it?” Marco says against the shell of his ear.

“Again,” he manages, and he can feel Marco smiling against his neck as he leans back and then slams forward again. He cants his hips upwards, meeting his thrusts, and that’s when it just comes together for good – it feels great, no, _more than great_ , and it’s entirely different from what he’s adjusted to and he already knows he’ll want to do this again and it doesn’t somehow seem a daunting prospect at all. He also knows he can’t possibly last long and so he moves his hands right behind Marco’s shoulders, his fingers digging into hard muscle as he meets one long, deep thrust and that’s it, he finds Marco’s mouth with his and moans into it as he goes still for a moment and finally lets go. He’s so over in his own head that he doesn’t even notice Marco’s arm going behind his back pretty much supporting his weight as he lets himself fall against Marco completely. He barely even feels the sweat plastered all over his face and whimpers in satisfaction when Marco’s hand comes back cradling his head and keeping it steady as he closes his eyes and just rides out the wave of complete bliss he’s been hit with. He can feel when Marco tries to move back and he grabs at his shoulders tighter – he can hear Marco swearing as he comes inside him, holding him closer and letting the both of them crash on the mattress.

A very wet mattress, but right now it doesn’t matter. What matters is finding Marco’s mouth again and running his hand slowly over the knife scar near the small of his back and basking in the warm feeling rising across all of his body right this moment, and he curls up closer when Marco slips out of him and thinks, _I’m not going to regret this_.

He opens his eyes maybe a minute and maybe a lot more later – he has no clue, but when he does, they’re still pressed to each other, the sheets are wet, their own skin is filthy and Marco’s looking at him the way Cosimo thinks he’s looked at pieces of architecture far more worthy to be stared at than his own human and ultimately not as everlasting face.

He doesn’t know how _he_ is looking back at Marco, but he knows he’s smiling, and that feeling he had buried down a year ago

( _he has an interesting face_ ) 

is coming back in full force and he thinks maybe it wouldn’t be too bad to drown in it. Marco’s fingers brush away sweaty strands of hair from his forehead and Cosimo wants to press against the touch and does, feeling a certain peace with himself he hasn’t felt in a very, very long time.

He wipes down one of his hands on the sheet, then reaches forward and touches Marco’s neck and then moves it upwards, tracing his hear.

“You know,” Cosimo says, figuring one of them should break the silence, “back when we met.”

“What about it?”

“I thought – I thought you had an interesting face.”

“ _Interesting_?”

“I mean – maybe not out of some art treatise, but – I don’t know if I can explain it.”

“Try me.”

“Do you look like any of the statues I keep around the house?”

“… I daresay I don’t.”

“That’s because _that_ is what you find in art treatises. You’re – just sharper everywhere while those are only sharp in certain places, if I explain myself. But it doesn’t mean that it’s something I wouldn’t want to look upon.”

“What?”

“I wanted to draw you, back then,” Cosimo confesses, hoping that he’s not flushing as he says it. Then again, he’s probably flushing already for different reasons.

“ _Back then_?”

“I didn’t because – it just wouldn’t have been a good idea. But yes. Interesting faces stay interesting. And I didn’t know what was behind it back then. Now I do.”

“… And?”

“And I still want to draw you.”

For a moment Marco looks genuinely surprised, but then he smiles ever so slightly and leans back. “Well, I’m not going to say no,” he says, and he sounds… touched?

“Then,” Cosimo replies, “I’d be more than happy to after we clean up. I have some water over in the corner.” Good thing he keeps a full pitcher in case he feels thirsty at night or needs it for any other reason. They manage to get out of bed and wash enough that they’re not filthy anymore. Then Cosimo glances at the sheets and just grabs a clean blanket from the drawer and puts it over the mattress.

“I’ll bring everything to wash tomorrow myself,” he decides. “Now how about you make yourself comfortable?”

“As you wish,” Marco agrees. He puts his shirt back on but not his trousers before he moves back to sit on the bed, and Cosimo follows him after putting on his shirt as well, folder and piece of paper and charcoal in hand, settling with his back up against the wall.

“How do you want me?” Marco asks, and somehow it doesn’t sound lewd even if it could have.

Cosimo considers it, then allows himself to smile wide enough to show his teeth. He pulls back his legs, so they can support the folder, and puts the blank piece of paper on it so it’s supported in turn.

“Just sit in front of me.”

Marco moves forward, sitting cross-legged on the bed, one hand carefully wrapping around Cosimo’s ankle. Cosimo doesn’t suppress a shiver.

“Like this?”

He’s smiling, slightly lopsided, and Cosimo would like to tell him to just stay like that, but instead starts sketching exactly that expression so he doesn’t lose it when he moves to the rest of Marco’s interesting, handsome face.

“Exactly like that,” Cosimo replies, and he knows he’s grinning as his fingers get stained in black and lines come to life on the blank whiteness resting on his legs.

Later, his own fingers will stain Marco’s wrist and the whitened scars on his chest as they lay back down under the covers with just some faint candlelight preventing the room from falling into darkness. Later, the finished portrait will lie on the empty nightstand and Marco will fold it carefully and bring it away with him in the morning, and Cosimo won’t ever ask back for it. Later, he will think that it really did come out well and he will sketch another that he will keep at the bottom of that folder for no one else to see and he will know he will never bring himself to burn any of the pieces inside it.

Now, though –

“You really should never stop doing this,” Marco says quietly, as Cosimo sketches away.

“Why’s that?”

“Because it makes you happy and I happen to think you deserve it.” Marco’s staring straight at him as he speaks, and Cosimo can’t say _thanks for at least understanding it_ and _I’m not so sure I deserve it but it’s good to know someone thinks I do_.

“It’s not the one reason I might look happy right now,” Cosimo tells him, and his own voice sounds barely audible to his own ears, but it’s obvious Marco understood it perfectly.

“Does this mean you want this to happen again?”

“What if I do?”

“Then you would make the both of us happy, I think.”

There’s no questioning the sincerity of that statement and Cosimo decides he will think about all the reasons why he shouldn’t do this ever again in his life later.

Or maybe, he considers, maybe he will never consider them, he will let himself have it the one person he’s been able to choose who happens to maybe have chosen him back, and as his fingertips become progressively darker, he knows he can feel his spirit lift just as much, and for now –

For now, he thinks, he will enjoy being surrounded by what he loves if only until morning.

 

End.


End file.
